He had turned his attention to the natural harbour before his eyes, looking over the horizon with what he would never admit was sentimentality, an unguarded and unprompted appreciation of the natural world he would never vocally admit. He placed his hand on the fore grip of his M16, rested against the wall of the docks.

It was a pretty good placement for the gun - in easy reach, perfect for grabbing if any obnoxious thief tried making a run for it, or some sanctimonious prick tried using this as an opportunity for a vendetta against him. Although now he gave it a second's more thought, that latter possibility could be dismissed. Bradley highly doubted hatred against him ran that high.

He was pretty sure none of his classmates, bar friends or cousins (who hopefully had escaped), had wasted a second thinking about him. Bradley, despite his comically hyperbolic presentation of his own ego, was not so self-aggrandising to think he was so hated that people would actually actively seek him out in vengeance. The worst he'd ever done was a few witty quips that hit too close to home. There were more pressing reasons for seeking out revenge.

But then he heard the voice of a new arrival. Turned around, and was about to make a joke about how Steve's voice had suddenly become girly. And then, slightly afterwards, spotted the actual source of the voice. Alba.

"What a genius question, Alba!" Bradley made sure that his sarcasm wasn't too obvious. Would be far more fun for Alba to not spot it. "I for one have no intention of shooting your brains out, if that's your concern."